there are no flowers here but snow. the bay not yet free chunked with ice the white of which exists only against a distant liquid sea. at least the sun visits, comforting, illusion though it is, visions of thawing, melting down to something green.

in the long sleep of winter I have dreamed something Spanish that you said along a twilight turquoise something soft covering sun drenched shoulders silver threads an old man’s harp played for money by the moon.

Was lucky enough to live in Cape Breton for a while. The area Mira Gut was where the river Mira entered the Atlantic. We lived across the street from the ocean. Sometimes we’d walk down to the Mira bridge and fish for mackerel. Some of the most beautiful parts of being there were the winters. this was probably written on 2003.

pd lyons has been writing for a long time now and hopes to continue doing so for even longer. Work has appeared in many mags & zines through out the world. Has two collections of poetry published by Lapwing Press Belfast. For further info please visit pdlyons blog for poetry publishing info and new releases: https://pdlyons.wordpress.com/

Like this:

In 1990 I was lucky enough to travel to Belize. For half the trip we were doing a horse trekking in the highlands. We stayed at a former orange plantation – i remember most vividly the of free flying parrots. They were elegant airborne acrobats so unlike those domesticated souls back in the states. We wold ride through the jungle for hours sometimes lunching by water falls, or swimming into limestone caves. we each were issued a machete to lop off the foliage as we rode. It was deemed poor etiquette to not do your fair share of keeping the trails clear. occasionally we’d pass trees of ripe citrus – reach up from horse back and pick one. Our guide had worked with Harrison Ford on a film based in Belize. He told us he really liked Harrison and became friendly with him. So much so that Harrison promised to…

Like this:

Sixty- two Chevy pick upBondo dust and shot exhaustYour brother driving 84 eastNeil on the radioI smoked a million cigarettesSo you wouldn’t try n kiss meNot cause of that but because your brother already wanted to kill me Was only driving me to WaterburySo I wouldn’t have no excuseTo hang around you

he could not find you amazing
he could not touch your mystery
he could re call vast wilderness
adrift among archetypal feminine
a wash among deltas
Venus like salt mingling with new rain
blood like midnights paling lunary

a pleasure beyond wounds
a mingling beyond physicality
a hungrier type of mouth
willing to feed and to be fed upon

drawn up the spectre of a planet from the limbo of lunary souls — E. A. Poe

We’d just been saddling up the horses, like we done how many times before? Just another day, morning still stiff on our fingers we fumbled around with buckles and leathers . I wasn’t paying much mind to him, we were saying few words as the day was far too early to have eased our aches and pains of haven rid for miles and slept hard on stony ground. He was in mid sentence about something I don’t remember, when all of a sudden he let out this “son of a bitch”. All I caught was a glimpse of that mare, one of our spare mounts, s kitting away from him. Still holding his back he turned hissing ” You son of a bitch.” She didn’t seem to notice the irate man intent on murder stepping towards her until he lost his balance and in…